


Happy Birthday, Dear Ezra

by mudkipwrites



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Birthday Cake, Birthday Fluff, Breakfast, Comfort No Hurt, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Early Mornings, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Flirting, Found Family, Gen, Injury Recovery, M/M, Meet the Family, Memory Loss, Romantic Friendship, Space Mom & Space Dad, Spectre Crew - Freeform, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:14:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23941387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkipwrites/pseuds/mudkipwrites
Summary: When Kallus helps Zeb to prepare something special for one of the members of his Spectre family, he finds himself being drawn into that family, too.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios, Kanan Jarrus/Hera Syndulla
Comments: 20
Kudos: 100
Collections: Kalluzeb appreciation week 2020.





	Happy Birthday, Dear Ezra

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something short and sweet to kick off KAW. This one's for DistantStorm, who is not only an incredible writer, but also a great human being and kind friend. Her work is off the charts, and if you need something to read, better check out her work on Mando or Thrawn. Okay, that's about it...I hope you enjoy this harmless, high-calorie fluff!

* * *

KALLUZEB APPRECIATION WEEK 2020 - DAY 1 / FRIDAY MAY 1 / "TENDER" 

for DistantStorm <3

* * *

When a warm hand shakes him softly awake, Alexsandr Kallus grumbles and rolls away from the gentle touch.

“S’not _time_ yet,” he groans, hoisting the blankets back over his shoulder. “Gimme five more minutes.” 

The warm chuckle rouses him farther awake.

Sitting up and rubbing at his foggy eyes, he looks around blearily. “Where am I? _Zeb?”_ he startles at the sight of his Lasat enemy-- _no, that isn’t right_ \--at his _friend_ sitting next to him. A host of memories come flooding back as he takes in the crooked smile of the other man’s gaze, the lines of his shoulders and painted wall behind him. 

“S-sorry, I had a bad dream,” he murmurs. He notices that he is bare-chested, and that Garazeb is _looking_ at him, and he pulls the blanket up a bit higher. “Sometimes it takes me a little bit longer to come back after that.” 

He should not be surprised when the Lasat nods at him knowingly. 

“Ah, I get that,” he says, voice careful and caring. “Ya still wanna help me prepare somethin’ special for Ezra?” 

Kallus frowns. A little wrinkle of skin develops on his forehead while he racks his tired brain for answers. 

“We were gonna make him a bit of breakfast,” the larger man prompts. He does not sound annoyed, only gentle. “Ya said somethin’ about using cake batter to cook him some pancakes?” 

Their conversation from the night before comes rushing back to him. Internally scolding himself for his slowness, Kallus raises a hand to hit at his head. When he catches Zeb’s narrowed, green eye, however, he freezes mid-motion. _(The man doesn’t like it when I hit myself At least I can remember_ that). 

“That’s right,” he agrees, allowing the blanket to slip in his hands. “We were going to wake up early and prepare something nice for the kid.” 

“That’s it,” Zeb says encouragingly. Tenderness dances in his glowing, emerald-green eyes. “I’m glad ya remember. So we best get goin’ pretty soon, yeah? We don’t wanna wait until the little Loth-rat wakes up.” 

Kallus smiles at his friend and gives him a nod. As the Lasat rises, he slides his feet out from beneath the covers, and he places them onto the cool expanse of a durasteel floor. His toes recoil slightly, and he yearns for a moment to stay in the heat of bed. 

“C’mon, princess,” Zeb teases gently. He looks over his shoulder at him from the doorway. “I’ll start cutting up the meiloorun into slices. But _you_ gotta get that special cake batter recipe ready. So I’m gonna need that scrawny ass in the galley _stat.”_

He opens his mouth to protest, but the willpower for it quickly leaves him. Garazeb is smirking at him with that warm, playful look, and he wants nothing more than to take a running jump into the other man’s arms. With a sigh, he places his feet fully upon the ground. 

“That’s it,” Zeb grins. He disappears through the doorway, leaving Kallus alone to get dressed. “Hustle up, buttercup. No goin’ back to sleep.” 

Alexsandr Kallus steps out of bed and stretches. He scratches at some skin upon his lower back, then walks across the room to pull a pair of soft trousers out of the closet. So much--including his body--has changed since he’s defected. Zeb says that the torture he’d endured before he’d been rescued had left him with nightmares (as well as the amnesiac episodes), but he doesn’t remember any of that. All he remembers is falling under the strike of the Grand Admiral’s hand, and then awakening with Garazeb Orrelios soft embrace around him. 

_Garazeb Orrelios._ The man has changed his life. Rather than holding a grudge against him--rather than avoiding Kallus as the man who has singularly and irrevocably taken so much from his life--he has gone out of his way to _care_ for Kallus. In the short time that he’s been with the crew of the _Ghost,_ he’s experienced nothing but kindness from the Lasat man. 

In the midnight hours, Zeb would enter his room to hush him from screaming. In the early dawn, Zeb would join him for his sparring workouts. He’d join him in the galley in the late afternoon, watching his hands working deftly over the variety of exotic fruit. Kallus told him of his life, of his _childhood,_ while he made recipes and soothed himself in the kitchen. In all of this, Garazeb had never _once_ interrupted him, judged him, or left him alone in his painful silence. He’d simply _been_ there. Been there for him as if he were _family._ He owes his life to the compassionate man. 

Kallus flexes his toes as he pulls up his pair of trousers. They catch and tug a bit over his waist, and his mouth twists in distaste at the greenish-brown bruises and stodgy flesh. At one time, Alexsandr Kallus would take great pride in the appearance of his body: he would _never_ have let it grow into this state. However, his priorities have shifted after... _after..._ and he is doing his best to look after himself in small, daily ways. It was just another thing that Zeb had taught him. 

Yawning, the Imperial defector turns and walks towards the door of his room. He pauses briefly to look in the reflective transparisteel against the doorway, and he brushes the sandy hair out of his eyes. Since arriving upon the _Ghost,_ he has relaxed on his strict regimen of cutting and shaving. Along with his belly, there is a slight growth to the burliness that he sees there. That much, however, is welcome to him. 

Kallus walks down the hallway as quiet as possible. He edges past the doorway of the room that Garazeb and young Ezra Bridger share, knowing that the keen-eared Lasat is already hard at work in the kitchen. He creeps past the room that Kanan “sleeps” in _(even_ he _knows that Syndulla and the Jedi man are an item, and most always take to her bed),_ and he tiptoes past the quiet, painted archway of Sabine’s door. Finally he arrives at the galley doorway, hearing the quiet hum of his friend from within. 

The kitchen is dimly-lit by flickering candles. Garazeb must not have not wanted to go about turning on all the lights before the break of dawn, and Kallus finds himself enjoying the warm, almost intimate glow. Barefoot, he pads into the room and comes to stand beside the stovetop where the Lasat is reading a cardboard container. 

“Add water,” Zeb says, reading the label through narrowed eyes, “then mix.” He turns at the sound of Kallus at his side, then brushes his fingertips against his side. “Mornin’, bright eyes. Can ya help me with this?” 

Kallus blushes at the almost-compliment and the touch. He receives the box from the other man’s hand, raising it to his eyes in the dim light. “Half-cup of water, three porg eggs, and oil.” He looks over at Zeb. “Who uses a measurement like a _cup?_ Could you get any more _vague_ with your descriptions?” Kallus’ blush deepens with pleasure when he sees the Lasat smile, a tooth peeking out from his lower lip. “Why not just use standard units like the rest of the galaxy?” 

His friend laughs quietly and takes the box back from him. He sets it on the table, then turns to the crisper to rummage for porg eggs. 

“Not especially bright, the ones who produced this,” he says. “But I can never say too much for the Empire. It’s a boxed recipe, after all.” 

Kallus frowns. He receives the carton of eggs from Garazeb, feeling oddly protective of an institution that he’d intentionally abandoned as Agent Fulcrum. 

“It’s a _good_ recipe,” he sniffs. “Fetch the oil, won’t you, Zeb?” 

The Lasat snickers quietly under his breath as he turns away from Kallus’ haughty instructions. Feeling a bit hot under the collar, the human returns to face the stove, gazing down at the duracastiron-pan and several tumblers. 

“Did we forget somethin’?” Zeb asks. Kallus startles. His friend’s breath is fanning soft and warm over his neck, and it tickles the skin underneath his loose shirt. He closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the closeness and connection. Sometimes, he wonders if there is something _more_ between them. 

“Not that I’m aware of,” he murmurs. Staying a moment longer in the feeling, he finally moves to turn and receive the measurement of cooking oil from Zeb. “Alright. Let’s mix this together. Did you already cut the fruit by the way?” 

Zeb grunts in affirmation. He turns away to fetch the fresh breakfast foods as Kallus unfolds the box, stirring in the measurements one by one. First, he adds the dry ingredients, whisking them about until they are evenly distributed. Then he cracks one of the bright-orange porg eggs upon the rim of the bowl, dropping the scarlet yolk elegantly upon the mixer. 

“Yer good at that,” Zeb praises, close to his ear. 

Kallus shivers, leaning back almost without his own consent. “Thank you, Zeb,” he replies, voice soft and breathy. “As you know, I did lots of baking when I was back in the Empire. It was the only time that I ever got to myself.” When he feels the heat of his friend’s chest near his back, he hurriedly flinches away. Leaning forward to focus upon the bowl, he begins to mix the batter in earnest. “And I always found it soothing.” 

“Mm,” Zeb says in agreement. Kallus feels the Lasat shift behind him, and the bowl of fruit comes to rest upon the countertop. Then, to his _great_ surprise, gentle hands come to rest ghostly-light upon his bent elbows.

“May I?” 

Alexsandr Kallus does not know what to say. Gararazeb’s warm, muscled chest is brushing against his back rhythmically as he softly inhales and exhales. The familiar, soothing smell of his spicy musk wraps around him like a blanket. Rather than feeling threatened or encroached upon, he feels safe. _Protected._

He nods, and Zeb’s hands smooth tenderly down his elbows. They come to rest upon his own open palms where they clasp at the mixing instruments, now hanging loose and uncertain under his friend’s touch. 

“Let’s make it for him _together_ ,” Zeb suggests in a whisper. He begins to gently and carefully move their hands, kneading at Kallus’ knuckles until their fingertips wind together over the instruments. 

In a sudden rush of emotions, memories flood into Kallus’ mind. First, he remembers himself in the cave: huddled against Garazeb for warmth, trying (and failing) at sleeping. Then he remembers the Lasat carrying him off of a shuttle, clutching him to his chest as though his life had depended on it. He remembers sitting in the medical bay, his eyes hazy with medication as Zeb’s hands stroked tenderly over his knuckles just like this. 

He glances up at his friend, staring at his slightly-parted lips.

“ _That’s_ it,” Zeb agrees.

His eyes are upon Kallus’ hands, and the gentle motions of their bodies working the bowl gently bumps their hips together. He finds himself just slightly _shivering,_ and he closes eyes at the intimacy of the sensation. 

“Garazeb…” he breathes. 

His friend catches his eye and smiles. And it is at that _precise_ moment that Sabine Wren and Chopper trundle in, yawning _(and beeping)_ distractingly. Kallus feels himself jumping away from Zeb, and the Lasat’s hands fly up to hover above his shoulders. 

“Well, good _morning,_ boys,” the young Mandelorian says. Kallus feels himself blushing in the low light at the playful smirk tugging over her lips. “Looks like you two got a _great_ start on the birthday breakfast.” 

Chop releases a stream of what sounds suspiciously like expletives. Kallus doesn’t exactly _know_ for sure; he cannot speak basic. 

“Mornin’, ‘Bine,” Zeb replies fondly. He strides across the kitchen to kiss his kid sister’s forehead. “Thanks for comin’ to join us. I’m sure that Ezra’s gonna appreciate it.” 

She pushes him off, poking him in the fleshy side under his ribs. 

“I see that somebody’s _already_ appreciating it,” she replies, voice heavily implying that it’s Zeb and Kallus. 

The Lasat’s ears flatten in mild embarrassment. “Already feisty at this tima day,” he chuckles, punching her in the arm. He rather overdoes it, because Sabine staggers from the force of the blow. “Whoop! Heh heh. Anyway...you an’ Chop can make yerselves useful by helpin me with squeezin’ the juice.” 

“Love to,” Sabine says, raising a slim, dark eyebrow at Kallus. He waves at her sheepishly as she walks by, settling down at the table to be at the same height as Chopper. “Any sign of Mom and Dad yet?” 

The astro-mech chirrups something that sounds fairly dirty, and the other two Spectres react in a way that suggests that he _had._

“Chop!” Zeb scolds, pulling the juicer from storage. “Leave it alone. Ya _know_ that they deserve a good night’s rest.” 

The little thing babbles sardonically as Zeb places the instrument on the table. The latest pair sets right to work, peeling at the speckled rind of several, spherical fruit. It’s something fleshy and pinkish-orange, reminding Kallus of some of the more exotic citrus he’d tasted during his days at the Coruscant Academy. 

Garazeb taps him on the shoulder. “Better start cookin’ those pancakes now, Kal,” he prods gently. “Ezra’s bound to wake up with this racket we’re makin’.” 

Kallus nods and turns back to the stovetop. The oil has heated into a pleasant, nutty aroma upon the pan, and he can see from the gentle bubble of golden nearest to the corners that it is ready for action. 

“Steady now,” he says to himself, pouring the mixture out carefully. Rainbow, star-shaped sprinkles are scattered among the baby-blue batter, and it puddles into a pleasant shape as he swirls the pan around with his hand. “Easy does it.” 

“Do the birthday pancakes talk back?” Sabine quips from the table. She pops a piece of fruit into her mouth rather than grinding it against the juicer. 

“No, but _you_ sure do,” a laughing voice says from the doorway. All heads turn as Kanan Jarrus walks into the kitchen. The captain, Hera Syndulla, proceeds behind him. She is wearing her standard, orange jumpsuit, but only has the sheath (and not her full headgear) over her green lekku. The Jedi knight, however, is as shameless as always: he strides into the room in a loose-fitting v-neck and thigh-high boxers. “Mmm, smells _good_ in here!” 

Hera swats at his hand as he reaches for a piece of space-bacon upon the counter. Kallus blinks; he hadn’t even _seen_ Garazeb preparing that. Perhaps the Lasat had gotten up even earlier than himself, and had fried it beforehand? He looks at the other man, eyes tearing just a bit at the thoughtfulness that this family has for one another. 

“Gimme that back!” Sabine shouts, pulling a knife out of Chopper’s hand. “No, you _don’t_ need that for Ezra’s birthday! No, _stop that--”_

Hera sighs, pressing her hands to her temples. 

“ _Kids,”_ she intones, eyes closing in an effort to stay calm. “It’s not even _morning_ yet. If you could _please_ do your best to put in good behavior, I’ll--” 

Kanan loops an arm around her waist, jostling the Twi’lek woman and giving her a rakish wink. She groans, dropping her fingertips to press against her nose. 

“Why do I even _bother,”_ she grumbles, but with no real anger. “You’re even worse than the _rest_ of them.” 

Kallus blushes and turns back to the stovetop, prodding at the speckled moon of birthday pancake. It’s nearly ready to be flipped. 

“Zeb, get the tray,” Hera is saying now behind him. “Kanan, you get the dish-ware. Sabine, I _know_ I put that holo-card _somewhere,_ and if you could just go to my cabin and--” 

Multiple voices of protest erupt from the galley. Kallus grins and focuses on flipping his pancake, knowing that the trio of Specters will _immediately_ do as she says as soon as she gives them those _eyes._ In the meantime, though, they whine and put on a show. 

“Quiet!” Hera’s voice rises above the others. “You all need to quiet down, or you’ll wake Ezra!” 

“...Did someone call me?” 

Silence suddenly fills the kitchen as all of the Spectres turn to face the youngest member. Teenaged Ezra Bridger stands in the doorway, his cobalt-blue hair rumpled in the breaking light of dawn. 

“Uh, what’s going on?” he asks, amused. “I thought I heard my name.” 

The _Ghost’s_ volume suddenly returns as all voices rush into a hurried explanation. Kallus says something about cooking his own breakfast; Garazeb talks of making midnight snacks. Sabine says that Chopper is causing some trouble, and Chopper says something that shan’t be repeated. Hera crosses her arms and grumbles at Kanan, who laughs and clutches at the sides of his belly. Ezra absorbs all of this at once, a smile splitting over his tanned face. 

“Karabast!” he laughs, a perfect imitation of his older brother. “Is it my birthday? _Already?”_

Zeb nudges his shoulder with a plate, and Kallus tips the prepared birthday pancake onto the flat surface. It looks _perfect:_ fluffy, rainbow-speckled, all ready for whipping cream, fresh meiloorun, and sun-citrus sauce. 

“That’s right, kid,” Zeb grunts, waving him over. “Come an’ see what we’ve made ya.” 

The young man makes his way to the table, pausing to receive hugs from Kanan and Hera. Chopper zaps at the leg of his pajama bottoms, and Sabine playfully scrunches his hair with an open hand. 

“Happy birthday, Ez!” she says, making him blush. “You’re finally a teenager!” 

The others laugh as the human scowls. “Very funny,” Ezra Bridger retorts. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been a teenager for _several_ years now.” 

There is a nudge behind his back, and Kallus takes a tentative step forward. He places the plateful of birthday pancake upon the table, and the young man’s eyes widen with admiration and surprise. 

“ _Woah!”_ he says appreciatively, drawing the bursting plate towards himself. “Did--did _you_ make this, Agent Kallus?” 

He feels himself cringing slightly at the old name, and watches the realization flash over the human’s face. 

“Er, sorry! Old habits die hard. This is--wow!” Ezra lifts his fork and pokes at the cream-covered, fruit-laden cake. “This is incredible! Sure, Zeb can hand me a box of cereal, but _nobody_ can cook anything like _this_ on our ship.” 

When eyes turn to Kallus, he finds himself flushing. 

“It’s only a box cake,” he mumbles awkwardly. “Like how my mum always made them for me. On my birthday.” 

The open, grateful grin that splits across Ezra’s is enough to make _every_ second of this morning worth it. And hit had been quite a good morning indeed. 

“...Thanks, Kallus,” he says, genuinely impressed. “That’s. That’s very thoughtful of you.” He turns his attention back towards the cake, licking his lips in admiration. “And it’s very _hungry_ of me!” 

Sabine groans, rolling her eyes at her brother. “That’s not even _funny.”_

“It’s my _birthday,”_ Ezra snaps, digging in his fork. “Throw me a bone, here.” 

Kallus chuckles, and he feels a tap upon his shoulder. When he turns, Garazeb is offering him another plateful of birthday pancake. He must have been watching his movements carefully without his notice, because it looks just as great as the other upon the table. 

“Who is ready for the next?” he asks, offering the dish up. Sabine raises her hands eagerly to accept the plate, and Kanan steps forward in attention. Kallus cannot help but feel fond of the crew, and a wave of affection for Garazeb’s family. “Don’t worry, there will be plenty for everyone.” 

As bright sunlight pours in through the _Ghost’s_ transparisteel windows, and the sounds of happy eating and laughing fill up the room, Alexandr Kallus relaxes against the galley wall. Garazeb lounges beside him, mouth full of fruit and eyes filled with pleasure. When he turns to look at the Lasat, he sees a dollop of cream upon his lip. He raises his hand. 

“Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your day...and your _family_ ,” Kallus says softly. He daubs at the white spot, collecting it upon his fingertip. 

“Thanks fer offerin’ to be part of it,” Zeb rumbles, taking his hand. “M’glad that you accepted.” Tenderly, he draws Kallus’ finger into his mouth. He sucks off the cream. 

Alexsandr Kallus feels himself go _red._

“If you two are just about _done_ over there,” Sabine calls, her voice cheerful and mocking, “we’re about to sing ‘happy birthday’ to Ezra.” 

Dropping their hands as if they’ve been scalded, Kallus and Zeb hustle over to the table. To his delighted surprise, the Lasat doesn’t draw away from him when their shoulders press together. 

Family gathered all around, Ezra smiles and perches his chin upon his hands. When he smiles, there are tiny dimples in the corner of his mouth. His eyes sparkle with affection, and he spends time looking at each member of his family as they start to sing. 

He even spends a moment with his eyes upon Kallus. 

_“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Ezra, happy birthday to you!_

Kallus sings along with the others--first softly, then more heartily as they all grow in volume. As they all cheer and clink their glasses together, he joins in, feeling as though he might actually _belong_ there. 

As he draws away, the man standing next to him catches his eye. He raises his glass, looking back at Kallus intently. _"And many more,"_ Zeb murmurs, as if speaking the words to Alexsandr Kallus directly. A warmth fills his belly as the Lasat raises the glass to his lips, drinking deeply and never breaking eye-contact. 

_Hopefully,_ Kallus thinks, gazing back at his friend. _If I could ever be so lucky_ _. Hopefully, many more._

* * *

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a comment and/or kudos if you have the time. <3


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